Elizabeth Peters - Night Train to Memphis

A voice from the not-so-distant past jeered, ‘And if you believe that, you are as innocent as a new-laid egg.’

So maybe I was. I’d rather be innocent (translation: stupid) than vindictive.

He had told me once that he loved me. Only once – and I had badgered him into saying it, at a time when he was too battered and bruised to fight back. I owed him for those bruises, and for a couple of other times when he had risked his precious hide to get me out of a nasty situation. Perhaps he had meant it at the time. Perhaps he had only said it to shut me up.

If I betrayed him now I would stand accused, if only by my own conscience, of revenging myself on a man who had wounded my pride and my vanity. My initial protest to Burckhardt was still valid. Even if I identified John as the thief and swindler half the police of Europe were looking for, they couldn’t arrest him on my word alone. From what I had heard about the Egyptian security forces, they weren’t always too scrupulous about legal formalities, but John was a British subject, protected by the noble code that proclaims a man innocent until proven guilty. I believed in that code, even if it did seem at times to give crooks an unfair advantage.

There was no hurry. The tour wouldn’t return to Cairo for three weeks. If John did mean to have a shot at the museum I’d have to turn him in, there was no question about that. But I could afford to wait a little longer.

I decided to go to bed. A book I had brought along, on the medieval mosques of Cairo, had my eyelids at half-mast before I had read two pages. At that rate, I’d never become an expert on Islamic art in time to lecture on the subject. Cheer up, Vicky, I told myself; you may not have to. Once they put the handcuffs on your ex-lover, you can pull out. With a clear conscience.

III

The horrors of rising at dawn, an activity I try to avoid, were mitigated by the handsome, dark-skinned youth who tapped at my door less than a minute after the chimes had wakened me. I was in no condition to appreciate him, but I certainly appreciated the tray he carried. After two cups of coffee and a cool shower I was ready to face the day.

I made it to the dining room ten minutes before the tour was to leave. Breakfast was buffet-style; there was still plenty of food on the table, but only a few people lingered in the room. One of them was the German urologist, still hunched over his book.

My professional colleagues were gathered in one corner. I deduced that they were waiting for me; as I contemplated the lavish spread, trying to decide what to eat, Feisal rose and joined me.

‘An embarras de richesse, is it not?’ he said, giving me a dazzling smile. ‘I don’t recommend the eggs Benedict; they are a trifle overdone.’

‘I’m late, I know,’ I said. ‘All I want is a roll and – ’

‘No, no, take your time. Sit down and relax, I will select something for you.’

I joined my ‘colleagues’ and we shook hands all around. Foggington-Smythe graciously informed me that I could call him Perry, and returned to his breakfast. Alice Gordon gave me a friendly grin.

‘It’s difficult to get used to this schedule,’ she said. ‘One is tempted to linger in the saloon, but dawn comes all too soon. How nice you look! Very professional.’

I had tried to control myself with Burckhardt’s money, but I hadn’t been able to resist the safari outfit. The pants were modestly loose – we had been warned not to offend Egyptian sensibilities by wearing scanty or skin-tight garments – and the jacket had more pockcts than a shoe bag. It made me feel like Amelia P. Emerson, but when I saw Alice’s calf-length cotton skirt and casual shirt I realized I had made a fool of myself. Professional archaeolosts didn’t dress like that. Not these days, anyhow.

‘I resisted the pith helmet,’ I said with a sheepish smile.

Alice let out a booming laugh. ‘You shouldn’t have. Why not enjoy yourself?’

Feisal returned with a loaded plate. I buttered a croissant and began eating. Perry (I wondered if I would ever be able to call him that) pushed his plate away. Having concluded the primary business of the morning, he was ready to give me his attention.

‘I look forward to your lectures, Dr Bliss,’ he said solemnly. ‘I confess I have not read any of your publications – ’

‘It isn’t actually my field,’ I said. I had known this would happen, and it would have been a waste of time trying to fool these people. ‘I – uh – I cheated a little bit.’

Perry frowned. ‘In what way?’

‘Don’t be such a stick, Perry,’ Alice said easily. ‘I don’t know what strings you pulled to be selected for this cruise, but I wasn’t exactly forthright either. My specialty is New Kingdom literature. There are at least a dozen people who know more about Ptolemaic temples than I do. But I’d have cheerfully murdered all of them to get a chance of living like a millionaire for once in my life. Ths is a far cry from the Hyde Park Holiday Inn.’

Feisal laughed. He really was gorgeous – even white teeth; glinting dark eyes – and he had a sense of humour. ‘A pity one can’t claim bribes as legitimate business expenses, isn’t it?’

‘I always do,’ I said.

Perry looked blank. ‘Really,’ he began.

‘Time we were off,’ Feisal said. ‘Forward!’

He bustled us out. The antisocial reader remained.

Alice fell in step with me. ‘I’m sure you were warned about lecturing on site. You can answer questions, but only licensed Egyptian guides are allowed to lecture.’

‘There’s very little danger of my breaking that rule,’ I assured her.

She laughed and gave me a friendly pat on the arm. ‘Some of these people don’t know the difference between the nineteenth dynasty and the nineteenth century; if they back you into a comer, just refer them to me or Perry or Feisal.’

The passengers had assembled in the lobby. I joined the fringes of the group – which, I was sorry to see, included the Tregarths. Avoiding them, I found myself standing next to Suzi Umphenour. She hailed me like an old friend, and I studied her in consternation. She had ignored the guidelines about dress, and was attired in a jumpsuit that clung lovingly to her posterior and bared her arms, shoulders, and cleavage.

‘Don’t you have a jacket?’ I asked.

‘It’s on the chair.’ She gestured carelessly. ‘But I don’t see why – ’

‘You’ll get a horrible sunburn. If nothing worse.’

‘Feisal said if I didn’t wear it somebody would drag me off behind a pyramid and rape me,’ Suzi said hopefully. ‘He’s such a bully.’

Feisal overheard, as she had meant him to. Frowning masterfully, he handed Suzi her jacket and hat, and ushered us down the gangplank.

‘Let’s sit together,’ Suzi said. ‘And have some girl talk. I adore men, but sometimes it’s a terrible bore having them cluster around.’

‘I seldom have that problem.’

‘Oh, now, honey, you’re just being modest. You know, if you’d spruce yourself up a little bit, you’d be real attractive.’

We took our places on the bus. By the time we reached the site my ears were ringing. Suzi had made helpful suggestions about my hair – ‘those little picks you have stuck in your bun are right cute, but you ought to let your hair hang loose instead of pulling it back’ – my makeup – ‘you ought to wear eyeliner, honey, and a darker-colour lipstick’ – and every article of clothing I had on. She had also analyzed, with devastating accuracy, every man on the boat. Feisal was the sexiest, but that Tregarth man had a certain something; a pity he was newly married.

I was determined to dump Suzi at the earliest possible moment but first I made her put on her jacket – a billowing big shirt of gauze so fine it did very little to fend off possible rapists – and her hat, a broad-brimmed straw that tied under her chin with a huge bow à la, I suppose she thought, Scarlett O’Hara. Then I fled. We had been told to stick with the group, but I figured that didn’t apply to me, and by that time I didn’t give a damn if it did. I don’t like listening to lectures, I’d rather wander in happy ignorance.